


Moderate to Severe

by reona32



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick!Tony, Steve is the best boyfriend ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reona32/pseuds/reona32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jarvis just thinks Sir would rest better in his own bed. It goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Clint calls Tony “Princess”. It’s a bro thing. I’m also making up Bruce’s medical talk but really, everything they do for Tony works for me. Also, I apparently like to hurt Tony and then give him comfort. It’s a problem I’m not seeking help for. This story is not beta-read. All mistakes are my own.

It was movie night in the mansion. It was a semi-regular Thursday night thing; provided the world wasn’t in danger, a majority of the Avengers were present at the time, and nobody had landed themselves in medical. Steve checked his watch and settled himself at the end of the long plush couch. All of the team was present this evening. This was rare as Thor often spent time with Jane at her place and Natasha and Clint had a habit of disappearing on super-spy SHIELD business that the others weren’t allowed to know about if they valued their lives. Clint had told them many times that if they told the other Avengers what they were up to he and Natasha would have to kill them. (Tony found this hilarious, for some reason. It sounded pretty serious to Steve.)

Clint and Bruce were arguing over which Star Wars movie to watch first. (Bruce wanted to go in order. Clint said there was no way he was watching the Prequels That Must Not Be Named. Even Steve could hear the capital letters when Clint said that.) Natasha had settled on one side of the short couch, bowl of popcorn in her lap and looking incredibly amused. Thor had already claimed one of the cushy lounge chairs. He had his own bowl of popcorn and scattered around his feet were two bags of chips and a bag of pork rinds. Steve checked his watch again.

“You’ll confuse Steve and Thor if you don’t start with The Phantom Menace,” Bruce was saying.

“Episodes 1 thru 3 are an abomination against humanity. They are better off never watching them. We’re starting with A New Hope and that’s it,” replied Clint. He was clutching the Star Wars box set against his chest, keeping it out of Bruce’s reach.

“Everyone knows that The Return of the Jedi is the best one,” announced Natasha, smirking.

“We could start with that one,” suggested Steve.

“No, then you really will be confused,” Clint said with a firm shake of his head.

“If we don’t want to confuse them then was should start with The Phantom Menace!” snapped Bruce.

“Perhaps now would be a good time to employ the Midgardian tradition of, what did you call it, flipping a coin?” asked Thor.

“Excellent idea, Thor,” Steve said quickly before this turned into a bareknuckle brawl like with the Indiana Jones movies. While Tony had replaced the large plasma TV they had broken, he hadn’t been happy about it. Steve pulled a quarter from his pocket. (People apparently didn’t carry change in the future. Tony said that electronic bank cards made carrying cash and coins unnecessary and could he really see Natasha or Clint jingling when they walked? Super ninja assassins did not jingle, no matter how many times Tony threatened to put bells on them.) “Call it Bruce,” Steve said as he flipping the coin in the air.

“Heads.”

Steve caught the coin and slapped it over his wrist. He removed his hand and smiled regretfully at Bruce. “Tails. Looks like we’re starting with A New Hope.”

“Yes!” crowed Clint, taking a victory lap around the living room. Bruce collapsed into the other lounge chair with a pout on his face.

Natasha threw a piece of popcorn at Clint. “Will you just put on the movie!” she ordered. Steve looked at his watch for a third time and fought back a sigh. It looked like Tony wasn’t going to be joining them. He hadn’t come up out of his workshop for lunch either and the dark haired genius had looked strained during breakfast. Well, breakfast if you counted Tony appearing for the length of time it took him to fill his coffee cup and then disappear again back into the depths of his workshop. Tony was probably caught in one of those manic fits of creation that sometimes overtook him, resulting in some new improvement to the Captain America suit or a new arrow type for Clint and an exhausted and strung out Tony. Steve hoped he had at least slept some last night. Tony could often go for days before finally collapsing on one of the workbenches. Steve fiddled with his own bowl of popcorn and promised himself he would check on Tony after the movie. The genius could be, well, touchy if interrupted while he was working.

A few minutes later they were following Luke Skywalker around Tatooine when the movie paused by itself. “Hey!” cried Clint, reaching for the remote control. “What gives?”

“Forgive me for the interruption, Mr. Barton,” Jarvis said suddenly. They all looked at the ceiling, despite being told several times that that wasn’t necessary and they looked ridiculous when they did it.

“Steward!” cried Thor happily. “Have you come to inform us the Avengers are needed?”

“No, Thor,” replied Jarvis. “I merely wish to see if Captain Rogers would mind escorting Sir to bed.” Clint wolf-whistled and Natasha smacked him on the arm.

Steve frowned and set his popcorn aside. “Is Tony okay, Jarvis?”

“Sir is fine. I merely think Sir would be more comfortable resting in his own bed,” replied Jarvis. That was unusual. Jarvis normally had no problem with letting Tony face-plant wherever he ran out of steam at. Natasha titled her head and cocked an eyebrow at Steve. They all knew that Jarvis was a marvel of programing and Tony insisted that the AI could learn and adapt in a way never seen before. They were used to the AI’s dry humor and the exasperated tone Jarvis often used when dealing with his creator. But they couldn’t help but think that Jarvis sounded tense and slightly distracted at the moment.

“Alright,” replied Steve slowly as he stood. “If you are sure that Tony is fine and just needs to go to bed.”

“I assure you, Captain, Sir is completely fi…” Jarvis stopped speaking mid-word, something they didn’t think could actually happen.

Everyone tensed. “Jarvis?” snapped Bruce.

“Sir requires assistance,” the AI blurted. They were all on their feet and moving before the AI could finish speaking.

“What’s wrong, Jarvis? Is he injured?” demanded Steve as he fairly flew down the stairs.

“Not injured. It’s been some time since it’s been this bad,” Jarvis replied. Now the AI definitely sounded anxious. “I implored Sir to rest earlier but he ignored my advice. It’s been awhile since he has suffered one this severe. I believe he was caught off-guard.” He was babbling. The AI was babbling. That could not be good.

They all rounded the corner to the workshop to find the area behind the glass walls dark. Steve jumped the last few stairs and hurried to the door but when he touched the section where the key pad should have appeared it stayed blank. He pulled at the door but it didn’t as much as rattle. “Jarvis? What going on? Why are all the lights off?”

“One moment, please,” replied the AI. A few lights turned on in the fair corner, casting the workshop in muted greys. “It is inadvisable for me to turn on more lights than that but you should be able to see adequately with just those.” Steve gave the ceiling a confused look.

“Steward, you must allow us in so we may assist our friend,” demanded Thor impatiently. The glass wall that separated them from the workshop would not be a match for Mjolnir should the god become irritated.

Natasha was peering into the gloom and gave a displeased sound. She pointed to a nearby table they could just make out in the half-light. Clint cursed as he saw what she was pointing at. The distinctive orange medication bottle was on its side, yellow pills scattered across the tabletop. Steve gasped and felt his skin prickle with horror. He pounded his fist against the glass door. “Tony? Tony! Where are you?” he shouted.

“Stop that! You are making it worse!” Jarvis fairly growled. There was a sharp pop and Steve jumped back as the glass wall snapped with electricity, biting at his skin.

“What are they? How many did Tony take?” demanded Bruce, green gathering around his eyes. “If Tony has overdosed on something, then we must get to him as quickly as possible, Jarvis. You need to let us in.”

“I am very disappointed in all of you,” muttered the AI. And Jarvis did sound as if they had let him down somehow. “They are prescription migraine medication and Sir had taken two. The bottle was merely knocked over by accident.”

“Migraine?” echoed Bruce with a wince. “Then all our shouting and pounding is not helping matters, is it?”

“No, Dr. Banner, it is not,” replied Jarvis coldly. “If you are not going to be of assistance, then please leave.” The glass wall crackled with electricity again in warning.

“We’re sorry, Jarvis,” Steve said. “We thought…well um.”

“I am quite aware of what you thought, Captain Rogers. You are wrong. Sir has never abused drugs in all my time of operation.” The AI’s voice could have frozen air solid.

“You said it’s been some time since Tony has had a migraine this bad,” Bruce said, redirecting the conversation. “How bad are we talking?”

There was a short pause before Jarvis answered. “Quite bad, I believe. Migraines have often troubled Sir but not to a level that they incapacitate him as they have now. He was also rarely nauseous enough to become ill.”

“He’s thrown up then,” stated Bruce. “I assume that means he’s lost the pills he took.”

“Unfortunately,” answered the subdued AI.

“Where is he now?”

The AI paused again. “Sir is on the couch.” Jarvis sounded miserable.

“Please let us in, Jarvis. We’re sorry we didn’t understand before but we can help now,” pleaded Steve.

For a moment Jarvis did not respond. Then the AI gave a little sigh. “Please, be quiet as possible. Noise and light only make the pain worse.” The key pad appeared and blinked green. They heard the door unlock.

The workshop was dim and smelled of warm metal and oil like usual. But now there was the acidic smell of vomit and the harsh, measured breathing of someone in pain. They found Tony curled tight in the corner of the couch, twisted into a ball with his forehead pressed to the couch arm. “Tony?” muttered Steve, softly touching his arm. The dark haired man gave a little moan in response. Steve was at a loss. His friend was in pain but he didn’t know what to do to help him.

The others were quietly muttering in the background. Jarvis directed Clint to the trashcan Tony had been sick in and the archer disappeared with it into the bathroom with a look of distaste. There was the hiss of running water from the kitchenette and Bruce appeared with a couple of warm washcloths. He laid one on the back of Tony’s neck. “Tony?” whispered Bruce. He stroked the other man’s dark hair. “Can you sit up for me? Please?” Tony whimpered a little and curled more tightly. Bruce frowned and jerked his chin to couch. “Steve? If you could?”

Steve sat on the cushion behind Tony and gently grabbed his shoulders, slowly easing Tony back. “Come on, Tony. Let us help,” Steve muttered. He guided Tony back to rest against his chest. 

Tony’s breathing quickened as the movement made his head give a vicious throb and he squinted his eyes open. “Wha…?” He swallowed quickly around rising nausea. 

“No, none of that,” murmured Bruce. “Close your eyes. It’s just us.” Bruce used one of the washcloths to wipe the sweat and tears from Tony’s face and then laid another one across his eyes. “Just relax.” Bruce pushed Tony back to rest more fully against Steve and then picked up one of his hands. “Steve, squeeze here for me please.” Bruce moved Steve’s fingers until he was satisfied with their position between Tony’s thumb and forefinger. “Keep up a steady pressure,” he ordered. “It will help with the nausea.” Bruce got up to speak with Natasha and Thor. Both the assassin and the god of thunder quickly disappeared up the stairs.

Steve wrapped his free arm around Tony’s waist, keeping up the pressure on his hand. “We’ve got you, Tony. Just relax,” he muttered into Tony’s hair.

Bruce returned to the kitchenette. “Is there anything I can give him, Jarvis?” he asked softly.

“He won’t be able to keep anything down at this point. Sir will merely vomit anything you give him back up,” replied Jarvis.

“What about something injectable? I could get tramadol for him.”

“It will make him more nauseous. Synthetic pain medications tend to make him incredibly ill, enough that dehydration becomes a concern. Non-synthetic pain medication and narcotics tend to make his heart rate elevate,” replied Jarvis. “There is a ‘do not medicate’ order in his file because of this.”

“Damn,” muttered Bruce. He returned with a fresh warm washcloth and replaced the cooled one on Tony’s forehead. Bruce reached up and cradled Tony’s head between his palms, softly rubbing his thumbs against Tony’s temples. “Tony? I want to get you upstairs and into your own bed. Do you think you can do that?”

“Just leave me alone,” Tony slurred, weakly pulling away from their hands.

“That’s not going to happen,” said Steve softly, beginning to rub at Tony’s belly.

Bruce caught Steve’s hand. “Don’t. His stomach muscles have to hurt by now. Tony, we’re not going to leave you down here and Jarvis was right, you will be more comfortable in your own bed. I’ve sent Natasha up to get your room ready and Thor is filling some hot water bottles for you. Just relax. We’ll get you upstairs.” 

Bruce returned to the sink and wet another washcloth in warm water. “Clint, could you grab a blanket from somewhere?” The archer didn’t reply but left the workshop and bolted up the stairs. Bruce returned to the couch and once again replaced the old washcloth, laying the new one over Tony’s eyes. The heat and weight would help ease the pain. “Good. You’re doing good Tony,” he soothed. Clint returned with the blue afghan that had been draped over a chair in the library. Bruce took it and wrapped Tony in its warm folds, cocooning him and hushing him when the genius wiggled. “Steve, can you carry him or should I get Thor?”

“No, I got him,” replied Steve. He shifted out from behind Tony, trying to jostle him as little possible, and slid his arms under Tony’s knees and behind his back. 

“Slowly,” warned Bruce. “Lifting him will probably give him vertigo.” Steve nodded and stood slowly, easing his teammate up off the couch. Tony whimpered, tucking his chin down to his chest and swallowing rapidly. They all paused but after a moment Tony settled again. Bruce smoothed the washcloth back into place over Tony’s eyes and pulled the blanket close, creating a dark little carven for Tony to hide. “Alright. Jarvis, can you dim the lights for us?” he asked.

“Of course, Dr. Banner,” replied the AI. The lights out in the hallway dimmed to grey gloom. Bruce nodded and Steve carefully began to walk toward the door. Tony began to breathe in little hissing pants. Clint held the door open and the small group made their way slowly up the steps. As they walked the lights around them dimmed automatically.

They made it out of the basement and Steve carefully turned to head up the stairs toward the bedrooms. He moved slowly because every jostle made Tony flinch and moan. In the second floor hallway, Tony gave a little jerk and began to shudder. Steve looked down in concern, afraid he had somehow hurt him. “He’s gagging,” snapped Jarvis. Clint darted off into one of the bedrooms.

“Down,” ordered Bruce. Steve knelt, supporting Tony’s back with one of his knees. Bruce took the washcloth off of Tony’s eyes and turned his head to the side. Tony swallowed rapidly and pressed his lips together, stubborn to the last second. “No, Tony. Throw up if you have to,” scolded Bruce. Clint reappeared with another trashcan. Bruce wrapped Tony’s hands around it so he would know where it was and then laid his own hands over his as Tony finally became ill.

Steve rubbed his thumb over Tony’s shoulder as the other man jerked and heaved. “It’s okay, Tony. We’ve got you,” he muttered. There wasn’t much for Tony to expel now, just bile and thin liquid. Finally Tony’s shaking stopped and Bruce wiped at his mouth with the washcloth. To Steve’s utter surprise, Tony then turned toward him and wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck, burying his face against the other man’s shoulder with a moan.

“I think it best we finally get him to bed where he can rest,” said Bruce. Clint took the soiled washcloth and trashcan and left to dispose of them. Steve shifted his grip on Tony and slowly stood once more, careful not to upset his stomach again. Bruce went ahead and held the door to Tony’s bedroom open. Steve slipped inside, twisting to the side to keep Tony’s feet from hitting the doorway. Inside, a single lamp on the other side of the room was the only light on and the bed linens had been turned down.

Natasha appeared from the bathroom with a steaming bowl of water and a stack of washcloths as Steve was carefully lowering Tony onto his bed. The assassin set the things on the nightstand and pulled the blue blanket and Tony’s t-shirt off of him before helping Steve gently place his head on the pillow. “Shoes and pants off,” whispered Natasha. Bruce and Steve removed Tony’s shoes as Natasha wetted a washcloth and briskly began to wipe down Tony’s chest and arms, removing sweat and smudges of oil and grease from the workshop. Steve blushed and backed away as Bruce pulled Tony’s jeans down and off, leaving him in just his boxers. Natasha smirked and tossed Steve a towel. Steve gratefully went about his task of drying Tony off as Natasha started on his legs.

Tony wiggled weakly, muttering and cursing at them, eyes tightly closed and breathing through his teeth in little hisses and whimpers. Bruce wet another washcloth in the warm water and pressed it over Tony’s eyes, softly rubbing. Natasha finished washing Tony down and disappeared with the used washcloths. Steve dried him and then pulled up the bed linens. Thor arrived carrying several hot water bottles, walking as softly as any of them had ever seen him move. Bruce accepted one of the bottles with a nod of thanks and slipped it under the covers to rest on Tony’s belly. The dark haired man immediately tried to curl around it but Bruce pushed him flat again. “No, Tony. Stay still. You’ll make it worse.” Bruce tucked another of the bottles behind Tony’s neck and a couple more along his sides. “Try to sleep,” he muttered gently.

It was hard to think through the pain, except for the vague mental pleas for death so it would stop. He had waited too long, he knew that. But it had been so long since he’d had a really bad migraine. Years since Tony had suffered one that hit him this severely. He’d waited too long to take the meds and then he’d thrown them right back up. Because he was a moron. An utter moron. The signs had all been there; the gathering tension in his neck and shoulders, sending pain down his back and making the tips of his fingers tingle. The slowly intensifying pain of the headache as it gathered over Tony’s left eye and then mutated into stabbing pins and the roar of jackhammers. The slight buzzing in his ears that was so easy to ignore and the feeling that everything was gently rocking even though Tony was sitting still. By the time Tony had noticed that all the lights in the workshop were surrounded by a soft glow and that there was a fuzzy grey patch in the middle of his vision, he knew it was too late to do anything and he was in for a doozy of a migraine. The only thing he could do now was find a hole to crawl into and wait for the pain to subside on its own.

Then there had been people with their talking and noise and moving him and they were just lucky he wasn’t wearing any piece of the armor because he would gladly shoot all of them if they didn’t leave him alone. They were speaking to him, bright flashes of pain ripping across his head. Then there was warm wet pressure across his forehead and gentle rubbing and that was nice but then they were moving him again and it was ridiculously unfair that his teammates were so strong but whoever was carrying him was wonderfully warm too and smelled nice but the gentle rocking of their steps was causing Tony’s stomach to roll and, oh god, he did not want to throw up again. He hated throwing up. It made everything burn and the pain in his head escalate from a three piece ensemble into the full orchestra. Tony wanted to hide. Then there was a brisk rub down that made his skin tingle pleasantly and soft towels and cool sheets and a warmth on his sore stomach that he wanted to curl around but they wouldn’t let him, the fuckers. Warm wet pressure was back on his forehead after that, soothing the jabbing throbbing behind his eyes, and the rubbing returned and there may have been some hair stroking, Tony wasn’t sure, and then things got sleepy and fuzzy and dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jarvis just thinks Sir would rest better in his own bed. It goes downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint calls Tony “Princess”. It’s a bro thing. I’m also making up Bruce’s medical talk but really, everything they do for Tony works for me. Also, I apparently like to hurt Tony and then give him comfort. It’s a problem I’m not seeking help for. This story is not beta-read. All mistakes are my own.

Tony woke up and immediately wished he hadn’t. He was sore everywhere, like he’d gone a few rounds in the gym with Thor without the Iron Man armor. He felt like a limp rag. Breathing took effort he wasn’t sure he wanted to use. Something had died in his mouth and his stomach was giving him dire warnings about moving. His eyes ached and his head felt wrong, like it wasn’t attached to his neck correctly anymore. He felt hung-over but a cautious poke at his memories didn’t supply him with the lovely event that would have led to a hangover of this magnitude. His swallowed painfully and croaked, “Jarvis?”

The answer was immediate and soft. “You are in your bedroom at the Avenger’s Mansion, New York City, New York. It is 11:39am on June 12, 2012. It is sunny and 88 degrees outside. You have 9 messages on your work line and no messages on your personal line. None are urgent. There have been no emergencies and no event triggers have been activated. Your location is secure.” The AI paused in his litany for a moment. “You suffered a severe migraine last evening, Sir. I felt it prudent to call for the others.”

And that brought a nice, lovely memory swimming up from the depths of Tony’s subconscious. “Oh. Fuck. Please tell me I did not throw up on anyone?”

“You didn’t.”

Tony jerked and his eyes flew open. The curtains were closed, the sunlight glowing golden behind them, and the only light on in the bedroom was the bedside table lamp on the other side of Steve. The American Hero was currently sitting on top of the covers on Tony’s bed, a book held in his lap. “What the hell?” gasped Tony. “What are you doing here?”

“Bruce thought it best to have someone with you until you woke. In case you became ill again,” said Steve calmly.

“And you drew the short straw?” drawled Tony.

Steve’s mouth quirked at the corners. “Something like that.” Then his face reformed itself into a look of concern. “How are you feeling?”

“Ugh,” grunted Tony, rolling over to hide his face in the pillow. “Like crap.” The morning after a migraine was no picnic. It was like your body was coming off a really bad cold and you were just achy and yucky with remembered pain. Tony hated it.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Steve said earnestly.

Tony peeked up at him but decided that was just too easy and he was pretty sure it was Steve that had carted his heavy ass all the way up from the workshop last night. He’d be nice, for once. “Some Advil or something?”

“Okay,” Steve replied with a nod. He set his book aside and left the bed, heading for the bathroom. The light turned on but it was far enough way that it didn’t bother Tony. He drifted sleepily for a moment, hearing Steve say something in the bathroom and Jarvis respond but feeling too lazy to worry about it. Steve came back and nudged Tony’s shoulder. “Here.”

Tony huffed and gingerly sat up, wary of setting off any bodily complaints. The blankets pooled into his lap. Steve looked to the side quickly and blushed. Tony grinned cheekily. “Oh, come now. You’ve seen worse than just my bare chest.” The arc reactor was a merry blue glow in center of his torso.

“It’s not polite,” argued Steve. Tony snickered and accepted the pills and glass of water from him. He took them and then drank the whole glass, finding himself unaccountably thirsty. Steve took the empty glass back and Tony eased himself back onto the bed, knowing better than to flop anywhere while his head felt like delicate spun sugar. Tony closed his eyes and prayed the meds would kick in soon. “Do you need anything else?” asked Steve. 

Tony shook his head slightly. “I’m good,” he muttered. The bed dipped as Steve resumed his seat and Tony peeked at him with one eye. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Steve shrugged and picked his book up. “I’d like to stay, if it’s all the same to you.”

Right. Because sitting in bed with Tony while he dozed wasn’t strange or intrusive or anything like that. Tony stared at him with his one eye. “Suit yourself, I guess,” Tony said finally. He rolled over away from Steve’s reading light and snuggled into the pillows, firmly ignoring the other man.

Steve looked up as Tony’s breathing slowed and grew even. He was surprised that Tony hadn’t kicked him out of his bedroom or at least off the bed itself. It had been a bold move for Steve to sit on the bed rather than a chair but Steve was still feeling a little off-balance from seeing Tony so sick. He knew what it was like to have your own body turn against you, remembered his lungs failing to fill as his throat tightened. His asthma was different from a migraine but the bodily betrayal was the same. The memory of Tony shivering in his arms was not one Steve ever wanted to repeat.

“Jarvis, could you let the others know that Tony woke up?” Steve said softly.

“I have already done so, Captain Rogers. Dr. Banners wishes me to inform you that as long as Sir appears to be lucid and in no more pain that we should allow him to ‘sleep it off,’ as you say. Although, Dr. Banners did express a wish to have Sir eat soon,” replied the AI quietly.

Steve looked over at Tony, watching the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. “We’ll see when he wakes up again, okay Jarvis?”

“That is acceptable, Captain.” Steve leaned over and gently pulled the blanket up over Tony. He then picked his book back up and resumed reading.

Several hours later Tony woke again and took a survey. He wasn’t as sore as he had been and his head didn’t feel quite as delicate. Starting with his toes and working his way up muscle by muscle, he stretched. Joints popped and his back realigned until Tony was pressing his fingertips into the headboard of the bed. He then relaxed back into the pillows. Much better, although now he really wanted a shower. “Time?” he called in a muffled voice, face planted into the bed linens.

“2:43 pm,” replied Jarvis. “Are you feeling better, Sir?”

“Much, thank you,” Tony answered. The bathroom was calling his name and he rolled across the bed toward the edge. Unfortunately, he bumped into something solid and warm. Tony gave a little panicked screech, that was in no way girly, and flailed back across the bed.

“It’s just Captain Rogers, Sir!”

“Are you okay?” asked Steve, wide eyed.

“Oh my fucking god!” snapped Tony. He placed one hand over the arc reactor just to feel it humming merrily on its way. “You’re lucky I didn’t have a heart attack!” With a growl Tony kicked at Steve’s thigh a few times. “What are you still doing here?”

“I wanted to be on hand in case you needed anything,” replied Steve, looking embarrassed and trying to fend off Tony’s abuse.

“Ugh!” Tony ripped the sheets away from where they’d tangled around his legs and slid off the bed. “You complete mother hen! You just scared ten years off my life! I need those ten years! Think of all the things I’ll never invent in those ten years!” Tony stormed across his bedroom ranting and then slammed the door to the bathroom closed behind him. “Think of the children you’ll disappoint!” he shouted through the wood.

“Um,” muttered Steve intelligently.

“You merely startled him, Captain Rogers,” Jarvis said. “He’ll calm down in a moment.” There was a rattle and a bang from inside the bathroom and Steve looked worryingly toward the door. “That was the shower door. Sir is currently wondering what died in his mouth.”

“Thank, Jarvis. Eh, I don’t need a play by play.”

“Of course not.” And Steve didn’t care what anyone else thought, that was totally amusement in the AI’s voice. There was a crash from the bathroom again. “Shampoo bottle,” Jarvis informed Steve helpfully.

“Right. I’m just going to go downstairs now.”

“Very good, Captain. Experience shows that Sir will be wanting food after he finishes his shower. He’s very partial to pancakes in these situations.”

“Ah. Right. Duly noted.” Steve fled the bedroom before he could hear anything else from the bathroom or be informed about what was happening in the bathroom by the AI. Of course, he went straight to the kitchen where he began to pull out flour and milk without even thinking.

“Hey. Tony awake?” asked Clint, coming in and grabbing a soda from the refrigerator.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. He’s getting cleaned up now.” He measured the flour into the bowl and began to fold in eggs and milk.

“What are you doing?”

Steve paused and looked down at the bowl with a sigh. “Making pancakes.”

“Why? It’s almost 3 in the afternoon.”

“Jarvis says Tony likes them.”

Clint was silent a moment, taking that piece of information in. “Man, you got it bad,” he finally announced.

Steve leaned forward until his forehead was resting on the upper cabinets. “I know. Don’t rub it in.”

Upstairs, Tony turned off the water and paused to listen. “Jarvis, is my nanny still out there?”

“No, Sir. Captain Rogers has left.”

Tony stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist as he went to the bathroom door and carefully peeked out. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jarvis, it was just that Tony was overly cautious when it came to embarrassment. (Especially when that embarrassment involved other members of the Avengers.) His embarrassment, not other people’s, he could care less about other people’s embarrassment. But the room was empty of overly maternal blond men. “Lock my door, Jarvis,” ordered Tony. He heard the door click across the room. With a nod of satisfaction, Tony went to the sink and plucked his toothbrush out of the holder. “What happened?” he demanded.

“You suffered a severe migraine last night, Sir,” replied Jarvis. Tony made a ‘get on with it’ gesture. “At 7:48pm you abandoned your attempts to keep working through the pain and took a dose of your migraine medication. At that time I contacted Captain Rogers and requested he escort you to bed as you would be more comfortable resting there than the workshop.”

Tony spat out toothpaste and coughed. “Please tell me you did not say the words ‘escort Sir to bed’ to Captain America?!”

“I used the verb of the word ‘escort’ but that is essentially what I said, yes.” Tony groaned and sank down onto a chair in front of, no matter what the hell Pepper said, was not a vanity. “Sir?”

“I’m fine. I’m going to donate you to the MET for their children’s program but I’m fine.”

“As you say, Sir.”

“How’d I get from the workshop to bed?” asked Tony, sticking his toothbrush back in his mouth and standing.

“Captain Rogers carried you upstairs with the help of Dr. Banner and Mr. Barton.”

“Huh, not a hallucination then. Great. My life is complete. Carried like a damsel in distress to bed by a National Icon and sex wasn’t involved. I feel cheated.” Tony spat and rinsed out his mouth. He gathered his shaving kit and set about cleaning up his goatee. “Any idea why he stayed the night?”

“I believe Captain Rogers was worried about you, Sir,” replied Jarvis.

“Worried?” Tony asked, pausing in his use of the razor.

“You were quite ill, Sir.” The AI seemed to hesitate.

Tony frowned; he didn’t even know that Jarvis knew how to hesitate. “Jarvis, spit it out,” he whined.

“Yes, Sir. Captain Rogers expressed several times that he wished you would come to him when you were having problems, that you would stop working yourself into illness, that you would take better care of yourself or at least allow him to, and that you’d stop scaring him like this. He seemed exasperated and worried and, well, fond, Sir.”

Tony carefully set down his razor and slowly sat back down on the chair. “Fond?” he echoed faintly.

“As I understand vocal and facial indicators and human emotion; yes. He seemed fond.”

Tony felt funny. A little nauseous and dizzy but not like he was going to be sick. “How fond?”

“I do not know how to quantify that, Sir.”

“Did he stay the whole night?”

“Yes, Sir. He stayed the whole night sitting just as you found him next to you. There was hair petting, if that helps” replied Jarvis.

“That’s pretty damned fond,” muttered Tony. He chewed on his thumbnail. “Where is Steve now?”

“In the kitchen making pancakes.”

“Pancakes, Jarvis?”

“I may have mentioned something about you liking them, Sir.”

“Oh, you Yenta.” Tony stood and hurried to finish shaving. He then scrambled out of the bathroom and threw open his closet. “What do you think, Jarvis? Armani? Dolce and Gabbana?”

“It’s breakfast, Sir. Captain Rogers might be uncomfortable if you appear dressed in a suit,” replied the AI.

“Good point. Best go for casual.” Tony pulled on a pair of jeans and one of his AC/DC band t-shirts. It was something he’d wear down to the workshop most days. He glanced at his shoes but decided to be extra evil and go barefoot. He then went back to the mirror and combed his hair, trying to get the dark waves into some sort of order rather than a rat’s nest. “Good enough, Jarvis?”

“I suppose so, Sir.” Tony rolled his eyes, tossed the comb in the sink, and left his bedroom. He had a National Icon to flirt outrageously with and pancakes to eat.

Tony was hoping down the stairs and past the living room when Clint called out to him, “Hey, Princess! You look better. How are you feeling?”

Tony shrugged. “Fine, I guess. The head is still a little wobbly but otherwise okay.”

“Great. You owe me for the puke,” Clint said with a grimace.

“Aw, come on! Steve told me I didn’t throw up on anyone!”

“You didn’t, Sir. You did however throw up twice into a wastebasket,” Jarvis informed him.

“And I took care of it both times. Thus, you owe me for the puke.”

Tony could see how that was fair. Above and beyond the call of duty and all that. “You’ve been slobbering over that little black Viper for months. Do you want it?”

Clint’s eyes went huge and he actually stood from the couch to properly face Tony. “Wait, seriously? You are not shitting me? That’s cruel if you shitting me!”

“I’m not shitting you. It needs a proper daddy. Jarvis, get the paperwork started to transfer ownership of the Viper to Clint and call in my detail guys.” The AI acknowledged the request. “How do you feel about some purple stripes, Clint?” Tony asked with a grin.

“Oh man! Yes! Totally yes! You are awesome. I will pull puke duty for you anytime you want!” exclaimed Clint.

“Let’s not take this to a level that weird, ok? Just enjoy your new car. Take Natasha out for a drive or something.” Tony gave Clint a wave and left him to his spasms of joy. As he approached the kitchen Tony could hear the soft rattle of pans. He stopped and peeked around the corner. Yep, ridiculously sweet and gorgeous was indeed making pancakes. There was even butter and syrup laid out on the kitchen island. Tony watched the play of muscles along Steve’s shoulders for a moment and tried not to drool. He then quietly entered and slid onto a stool. Steve turned and jumped a little when he saw Tony sitting there. “I was told there was going to be after-migraine pancakes?” Tony asked innocently.

Steve blushed and transferred the pancake from the pan to a plate were three other pancakes waited. “If you want? Jarvis said you liked pancakes...” Steve trailed off, uncertain.

“Yes, Jarvis is a very helpful boy, isn’t he?” asked Tony with a sour note. Steve deflated like a forgotten balloon and Tony took pity on him. “I adore pancakes, Steve. I would love some.”

The sad sack look disappeared from Steve’s face and he pushed the plate with the stack of pancakes across the island to Tony. “Do you want some juice?” he asked.

“I’d prefer coffee,” Tony replied, trying to get the correct butter to syrup ratio on his pancakes.

Steve gave a worried little frown. “Are you sure you should have coffee? You should really cut back.”

Tony paused in his pancake doctoring. “Steve, you know how much coffee I drink.”

“Of course. Too much really.”

“Now imagine what a caffeine withdrawal headache would be like on top of the after-migraine yuckiness?”

Steve chewed his lip and Tony forgot what they were arguing about a little. “How about coffee and some juice?”

“I will accept that compromise,” Tony said. He should get a medal for how agreeable he was being right now. This amount of pleasantness was hard. It was taking an extreme amount of effort on his part, particularly with his coffee being threatened. He should have Jarvis make a note. “Jarvis, make a note,” he called.

“About what, Sir?”

“Medal for agreeableness and pleasantness.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“And start the coffee pot.” The sleek silver machine on the counter began to rumble and gurgle. Tony cut his pancakes into neat triangles and began to shovel them into his mouth.

Steve gave the coffee pot a dubious look. He still maintained that coffee was best gotten from a stovetop percolator. Tony had called him a heathen. “Orange juice okay?”

“Apple, if we have it, please.” Steve opened the big refrigerator and looked through the bottles. At the island, Tony rolled his eyes. “Jarvis, do we have any apple juice left?”

“In the door, Captain Rogers, second self, third from right.”

“Oh. Thank you, Jarvis,” said Steve sheepishly as he found the bottle right where the AI said it would be. He still wasn’t completely used to having a seemingly omniscient computer to ask things for. Steve poured a glass and sat it in front of Tony. Tony put down his fork and took a sip of the juice. He then drained the glass in several large gulps as thirst clawed at his throat. “More?” asked Steve with a pleased smile. Tony thrust the glass at him with a petulant look. He was not going to listen to another lecture on proper hydration and how a gallon of coffee did not count as proper anything. Speaking of, the coffee pot beeped as Tony was drinking the second glass of juice at a slower rate. Steve begrudgingly poured Tony a mug. “Sugar? Milk?” Tony took his coffee all different ways and Steve never knew if he’d want it black or as one of those sweet, milky things that looked scary when made. Tony just shook his head and made gimme motions with one hand. Steve handed the mug to Tony and winced when the dark haired man took a gulp of the screaming hot coffee.

Tony sighed, like he hadn’t just tried to melt his tongue. “Yeah, that hit the spot. I had too much blood in my caffeine stream.” Steve just shook his head with a smile and returned to the stove to finish making the rest of the waiting pancake batter. He listened to the clink and scrape of Tony’s fork and knife behind him, a little knot of warmth settling in his chest. This was what he missed from his old life, the companionship one could find with a loved-one just spending time in the kitchen. He hadn’t had this since his mother had died.

The noises behind him stopped and Steve glanced back to see if Tony needed anything. Tony gave him a soft smile over the rim of his coffee mug. “Thank you for the food,” Tony said quietly.

Steve glanced down and saw there was still a large crescent of pancake left on Tony’s plate. “Are you done? You didn’t finish them.”

“I had enough. I’m still a little nauseated.” That, and the pancakes had been stacked four high and there was no way Tony was going to be able to finish that much fluffy goodness.

Steve gave a tiny, concerned frown. The little crinkle between his eyebrows was adorable. He turned toward the refrigerator. “Would you like some warm milk? That always helped when I had an upset tummy.” Tony fought down a squeal, because Steve just said ‘tummy’ and he was going to go into shock with this much cute, and slipped soundlessly off his chair. He tiptoed up behind Steve with a wicked little smile.

Steve was startled as Tony suddenly pressed a quick, sticky kiss to his cheek. “That was for the pancakes,” Tony said. Before Steve could react, Tony darted in again and kissed the corner of Steve’s mouth. The rasp of Tony’s beard made his skin tingle. “That is just because you are too cute for words.”

“Tony, what…?” Steve was cut off as Tony then kissed him full on the lips. The dark haired man tasted like sweet syrup and Steve may have moaned a little. He came out of his daze and returned the kiss, wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist. Tony made a pleased sound in the back of his throat and slid his hands up over Steve’s shoulders and around his neck. He let Steve lick into his mouth, chasing sugar and molasses, and Tony sucked lightly on the other man’s tongue. Steve seemed to give a little start at that and retreated. 

Tony gently nipped Steve’s bottom lip and pulled back, breaking the kiss. “And that was for carrying me to bed and staying with me the whole night when I didn’t feel well,” Tony muttered. Tony stroked a finger down Steve’s cheek and then slipped out of his embrace. Steve stood froze where Tony left him, arms hanging in the air. “Thank you,” Tony said softly and then left the kitchen. “Jarvis, fire up the workshop!” he called, leaving Steve slack jawed in front of the stove.

“Huh, I get a car just for doing puke duty and you get a hot kiss for holding a night long vigil,” said Clint, appearing from somewhere Steve didn’t want to think about and stealing a pancake. “I wonder what you have to do to get sex.” Steve shut his mouth and glared at the archer. Clint tossed his hands up and backed away. “I’m just saying.”

Steve cleared his throat and savored the taste of syrup that lingered on his tongue. “Captain, your pancakes are burning,” Jarvis informed him. Wonderful. Right then. Steve gave himself a mental shake. Once more onto the breach and all that.


End file.
